The Red Rose Knight
by Momerath
Summary: After The Coming of Arthur Part 2 - what's next?  *Spoilers for all of S3* M/A Friendship
1. Chapter 1

**The Red-Rose Knight Chapter One**

Set after The Coming of Arthur Part 2, spoilers for all of S3.

Merlin/Arthur friendship (feel free to read it slashily if you wish though!)

I'm back, hope you don't mind (please be kind even if you do – I'm sensitive)... I've had a year off from writing but got inspired by the season finale. Sorry it's so long for a first chapter.

Nothing's mine, OF COURSE.

ooooo

"Uther's just weak," said Gwen. "Like most bullies." In the half-dark in her little cottage, Merlin could barely see her face. But her voice was cold with hatred. She was staring around her destroyed home, with something like despair. Gwen had been living in the castle for weeks, until the Lower Town had been got into some kind of an order where it was safe for people to return to their houses.

Merlin didn't answer, thinking instead about the changes in Gwen this year, the confidence in herself that her love for Arthur had given her, the clear-eyed view of the world she took with it. He envied her that. She now had very firm opinions. He supposed he loved Arthur too, in his own way, but the love didn't make anything clearer, or give him any more confidence in his actions. Quite the opposite, in fact. Gwen flopped down into the chair beside him. "_And_ he isn't fit to rule anymore."

"Arthur won't usurp him." Lancelot said. Merlin had almost forgotten he was there; he was just standing by the window, looking out into the street. Merlin had thought how at ease he looked in Gwen's house, how familiar, as though he came here often, and had tried to banish the thought. But it kept coming back, however much he tried to ignore it. When Lancelot had tagged along with Merlin, he had given no indication he had seen Gwen recently. Merlin forced himself to take things on face value. Lancelot glanced over at them. "He would never dream of doing such a thing." He spoke with authority. He spoke as though it would be a bad thing if Arthur _did_ do such a thing. It _would _be a bad thing, Merlin had to remind himself.

"I know." She was irritable, unable to sit still, and got up again, moving a few more items around. "I hate Arthur as Prince Regent almost as much as Uther as King."

"Gwen –" began Merlin, reproachfully.

"Well, I do. It's like the world is being held back all the time."

It's like you and Arthur are being held back, thought Merlin, but was too wise to say it out loud. Instead he watched her petulantly throwing broken dishes into a box. "He's not liking it too much either," he remarked, glumly.

"I wouldn't know. I never see him anymore. Lady Elaine keeps me too busy with her stupid hawking."

"I like Lady Elaine," mused Merlin, fairly.

"She's fat," Gwen bit out, "and ugly." Then Gwen stopped. She sat down again, heavier than before. She was a kind girl who couldn't bear injustice even in a petty mood. She wasn't used to having tantrums, and didn't like the things she said in them. This wasn't who she was, and she knew it. "That isn't fair," she admitted, "Elaine isn't fat and ugly. And she doesn't work me too hard. And I don't think Arthur's anything like Uther." She passed a hand in front of her face. "I'm just so tired of it, Merlin. I feel like I hate everyone and everything."

The bells in the fortress rang out in the heavy summer evening air. Merlin roused himself. "Spect that means Bayard's party's on the approach." He stretched, got up, and squeezed his friend's hand. "It'll get better, Gwen. Soon, I promise."

Gwen shook herself a little, fixed her most cheerful smile and said energetically, "Yes, you're right."

But they both knew he wasn't, not necessarily. Walking back through the Lower Town, all of Camelot seemed to be moving a treacly speed. A malaise had lain over Camelot for weeks. After the drama and excitement of Morgana's rule, the people had looked for Arthur, knowing he would come for them, and of course he had, and he had won, and he had stayed, and 'now what?' was on the lips of all citizens. This wasn't how everyone had imagined it. This stasis. Even the laundrywoman had recently asked Merlin when Arthur was going to start acting like a king. "He _isn't_ a king," Merlin had pointed out, crossly. And she had just rolled her eyes because everyone knew that old Uther had finally gone mad. And the knights...those proud new knights who had believed every word Arthur had said, who had put their lives on the line for him and his new dream...those knights were now mooching around the castle wondering if, after all, they'd been fighting for Uther. If you were _for_ Arthur, they were wondering, were you really _against_ injustice? It was a question even Merlin was finding in his heart these days. No, there hadn't been any executions under Arthur's regency yet, but surely it was just a matter of time. And then the son would have become the father. Grim thought.

As though reading his mind, Lancelot squinted up at the fortress, shimmery in the light, and said, "do you suppose, eventually, he'll send me and Gwaine away? We are technically exiled. Do you think he'll ever go against his father's law?"

"I don't know." Merlin had to admit.

"He wouldn't do that," said Lancelot, again. Merlin looked sideways at him, as he batted a dozy fly away. He was relaxed, utterly confident in the prince. Merlin wondered where he found that confidence. Merlin believed it was real, he believed Lancelot's loyalty, and he believed Lancelot's passionate belief that Arthur had shown him a true way in life. But the love Lancelot had for Arthur was for the idea of Arthur, a complacent adulation for the notions Arthur put forth. That was the difference. Gwen and Merlin loved the person, and people can frustrate.

"He may have to," said Merlin, darkly. Because it was true. The idea of Arthur was one thing; the reality was that he was, as ever, utterly in the thrall of his father. Should Uther be moved to ever set down the law again, Arthur would follow it. Sometimes Merlin felt like they were walking around in circles.

Lancelot just looked at him, but didn't believe him.

ooooo

Merlin pushed open Arthur's bedroom door. The Prince Regent was sitting on a chair, feet on a desk, scroll on his lap, staring out the window. "Evening, sire," said Merlin, with a chirpiness he did not feel. He began holding out Arthur's formal clothes. Arthur snapped out of his daydream and took them.

"Bit late, aren't you? Bayard's practically here already." He spoke without energy. He went behind the screen.

"I was at Gwen's," said Merlin, as lightly as he could manage. But Arthur didn't respond. "She's well," he continued, cautiously. Still nothing from behind the screen. "Have you seen her recently?"

"When do I have the time?" snapped Arthur, in a tone that told Merlin that he had hit a spot.

"Maybe if you find the time," said Merlin, "you'll both feel better." And then, because he was tired and annoyed and depressed by the doubts crowding his mind, he added, "Lancelot was there too."

"Shut it, Merlin," and this time Arthur's tone closed the conversation. He emerged, hair ruffled and face slightly flushed. Merlin helped him on with his jacket. No more than ten words were exchanged between them for the rest of the evening. There wasn't anything else left to say.

ooooo

"Does anything ever happen around here?"

Merlin had found Gwaine in the tavern. The feast had been long and boring, and Arthur had gone to bed immediately. Merlin, finding himself in no mood to sleep, had gone for a walk in the still-warm summer night air, and had located his friend where he expected to. He ordered another round from the barmaid and sat down. Gwaine had clearly been there awhile already, he looked quite thickheaded. "There's been a feast at the castle tonight."

"And?"

"That's something happening."

"For the hundred people invited. And you were _there_ and you look bored witless."

"I remember when we used to be at war with Mercia," commented Merlin, gloomily. "Last time Bayard was in town I nearly died after I drank Arthur's poison." He swirled the tankard and took a long gulp. "Whenever something's happening, I never want it to be."

"Don't you?"

"No."

Gwaine looked at him as shrewdly as someone can after imbibing three pints. "I thought the taking back of Camelot was very exciting."

"We were nearly horribly killed."

"That's what I mean."

"Don't you get scared?"

"Exactly. Keeps you awake, you know?" he beamed. "You never feel more alive than when you're about to die."

Merlin considered this and couldn't argue with it. That exhilaration was addictive and, indeed, sourly missing. "You can always leave," he said, finally. "It's not like you're really meant to be here anyway."

Gwaine looked at him closely. "_You _can always leave, too," he pointed out.

Merlin snorted and drank again. "No, I can't," he said, with more bitterness than he meant. He immediately felt uncomfortable. He could feel Gwaine's curiosity. "Not while Morgana's still out there," said Merlin, weakly.

"Arthur's a big boy. He can look after himself."

"Not really, no."

"Well, he can find someone else to look after him."

Merlin didn't look up. "It's a loyalty thing, Gwaine," he said slightly coldly, as though introducing Gwaine to a foreign concept. He immediately hated himself. What was going on? First Gwen grew a second head and now he was turning into a monster.

"I see," Gwaine took a long draught. "Well I wouldn't know anything about that."

"I didn't mean..." he trailed off, to Gwaine's disbelieving stare. "I didn't mean that. I have to stay, that's all."

"You can always come back if he needs you. If he ever does anything."

"What can he do? His father's still alive. His hands are tied," Merlin delivered the excuses wearily.

"Camelot must be grateful to the happy day that brought the Pendragons to the throne," remarked Gwaine, sourly. Merlin wondered if anyone would ever be cheerful again. He stared miserably at his empty tankard and barely noticed the barmaid bash another one down in front of him. He really didn't need another pint, not after that one and the wine he'd had on the sly at the feast, but his muzzy head was a relief from the clarity of his doubts. He started drinking it again. Finally, Gwaine said, lighter, perhaps after seeing the misery on Merlin's face, "you know, I don't think I will go anywhere."

"No?" Merlin said, glumly.

"No. Usually I would. But not now."

"No?"

"No. Because for a few days there, I thought Arthur was the real deal. I think he still will be, one day, for what it's worth."

"One day," agreed Merlin, surfacing from his pint again and aware of the loosening of his tongue to the rising bile in his mood, "yes, everyone says that. I say it all the time. When will that day be, I do wonder?"

They both stared into their beers.

ooooo

"I don't have time to go hunting. Since when do you want to go hunting, anyway?"

"I don't. I thought you might. I thought maybe Gwen could – "

Now Arthur was staring at him hard. "I don't have time for this."

"Arthur," said Merlin, as calmly as he could manage. "Camelot won't fall and burn if you leave it for an afternoon." Except of course it had before. More than once.

Arthur waved him to the door.

"I shouldn't've brought it up, during one of your moods."

"I'm not in one of my moods."

"I think you are."

"I don't have moods."

"You really do."

Arthur just turned away. "How's Lancelot settling back in? I've barely seen him since he got back."

"He's been describing the beast to the court artist, so it can be added to the bestiary." Lancelot was just back from a quest - a terrible beast had been reported in the borderlands. Arthur had wanted to go. Arthur had always wanted to go. But he couldn't, not anymore. Not now he was Regent. Now he had to stay and rule, and send others, and it frustrated him beyond all imagining. Not least because it was usually Lancelot who went, and came back, covered in glory. It was Lancelot now who galloped into the courtyard to an amazed population, Lancelot who regaled the court with tales, while Arthur sat on the throne, and listened, and said 'well done' and did nothing himself. He seethed with resentment. But only Merlin knew. Everyone else thought how gracious Arthur was, and how much pride he took in his knights. Only Merlin saw the expression, now on Arthur's face, which betrayed the fact Arthur would have cheerfully caved in Lancelot's skull for a go at the beast himself. But there wasn't anyone else to spare – Gwaine's interest in questing was strictly spur of the moment, Leon was now in charge of training the knights of Camelot, Elyan was in charge of the armoury, Percival was busy receiving formal training from Leon...

In a slightly strangled voice, Arthur said "been spending a lot of time in the Lower Town?"

"He's been all over, I think," said Merlin, blandly.

Arthur looked at him, a little sadly. He seemed aware that Merlin had fully understood that he was _really _asking if Lancelot was spending a lot of time with Gwen, and seemed aware that the answer was yes, and Merlin didn't like it anymore than he did. A lot unspoken; as always.

"Sometimes I think he's living my life."

Merlin raised his head, Arthur had spoken so quietly and indifferently as he sat down at his desk. "What?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up. "Oh, I was just thinking before. You, him and Gwen all hanging around together, him going off on quests..." he shrugged, as though he didn't care, as though it was an idle thought, but Merlin could see the pain.

"Arthur –" he began. It really isn't like that! He wanted to say. But Arthur was glaring at him and began talking about how many boots had to be polished, and Merlin knew that the ranting meant he didn't want to talk about it, that he had given that piece of himself and was now regretting it and wanted to say no more. Merlin picked up the tray and left without another word.

oooooo

Merlin was in Gaius' rooms when a page burst in, breathlessly informing them the prince regent had requested their presence at an emergency meeting of the court. By the time they arrived, Arthur was sitting on the throne, grey-faced. It had surprised Merlin how quickly he had got used to seeing Arthur on the throne, but he hadn't yet got used to the look of responsibility, of weight on his shoulders.

"We may have a report of Morgana," he said. His voice was utterly unlike his own, he had invented this character of a king, and played it unnervingly well. He fully inhabited it. He only shed it with Gwen and Merlin. This role was for everyone else's benefit. He was making sure they would all go away and say how wonderful Arthur was, how stately, how born to it. "Her camp is some miles away, we've heard from some travellers, exiles from the west." He stared ahead, not looking at anyone, as though staring down a corridor of history that no one else could see.

A clamour rose. Leon was saying that the knights could ride at once, Gaius was urging caution, and then Arthur raised a hand. "We can't leave Camelot undefended," he told Leon.

"What defence is possible?" asked one of Uther's old counsellors, despairingly. Voices rose again, panicky.

"Sire," said Lancelot, and the babble died instantly. Everyone turned to look at Lancelot, the conquering hero, the person Arthur used to be before ascending above them to a place where heroics were less glorified because they were wholly expected. "Sire, with your permission, I can ride out quietly and confirm or debunk these reports. I can go alone, and not risk leaving an undefended city."

"It's too dangerous, Lancelot," said Arthur.

"With respect," Lancelot almost cut him off, as though he had known what was coming and couldn't wait to answer it, "with respect, sire, you have done many similar journeys, alone."

All the eyes of the court swivelled back to Arthur. He finally met Lancelot's eyes, and Merlin could sense the resentment. "I was never alone, Lancelot. Well..." he paused, uneasily, and only Merlin and Gwaine knew why "...I was never alone. I always had at least Merlin with me."

And then, with a dreadful certainty, Merlin saw how effortlessly Lancelot had moved his chess pieces. Now it was his turn to know exactly what was coming. "In that case, sire," said Lancelot, smoothly, carelessly slotting his final piece into place, "in that case, sire, may I request Merlin come with me? He knows the landscape, and the Lady Morgana, and I think we work well together..."

But Merlin had stopped listening by this point. He was staring at Arthur, who was now completely white with rage. His features, however, were completely immobile.

"...and surely you have other servants who can replace him in the meantime?" concluded Lancelot.

It was a clever move. What could Arthur say? Deny Lancelot a _servant_? "Well," began Arthur, and Merlin could see the frantic thinking. But Arthur had realised too that Lancelot had closed the trap effectively. "I can't _order_ a servant into danger," he said, finally, though he always did. "Merlin? Are you happy to go?"

"You're happy for me to go, sire?" asked Merlin, a little dazedly. He tried to think of a way around it. He felt that Arthur was being humiliated in a very serious way, yet probably – hopefully – only he, Arthur, Gwen and Lancelot would feel it.

"That's done then," the words fell out of Arthur's mouth. "You two had better pack. Court dismissed." He got up so suddenly that the guards almost couldn't open the doors in time.

Merlin stood still for a moment as people began to move, before he became aware of Lancelot at his shoulder.

"I needed your magic," he said in a low voice. He must have been able to sense Merlin's anger, because all he said afterwards was that they should leave before dark.

ooooo

When Merlin went to say goodbye, Arthur couldn't look him in the eye. His white-faced fury had become a tinge of humiliation around his cheekbones.

"Did you want me to say I wouldn't go?" he asked. "Because I'll tell him that, if you want."

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin. I won't have people say you are a coward when you're not. It's completely fine. I have a castle full of servants who can polish my boots."

That was true. But what was also true was that they were best friends. It was something Merlin barely thought about and something Arthur almost certainly had never and would never think about, but it was true. Arthur and Merlin rode together. It had become almost a joke amongst the court. And now Lancelot had taken that, along with spending time with Gwen, along with the triumphs of the tournaments and glories of the quests, Lancelot had taken that fierce inseparability from the friendship. And the only reason he had been able to take it all because Arthur had been forced to give it all up and it stuck in his throat. They would never talk about it, of course, but they both felt it.

"Be careful," he told Merlin, briefly. He shrugged and sat down, looking over papers, as he always was nowadays. "Make sure you bring him back safely," he added, not looking up. "He's useful to me."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for your reviews and story alerts! Am getting there slowly...

Merry Christmas, all.

xxxx

It was a long ride. The refugees had said they had spotted a camp of druids – and the Lady Morgana amongst them – deep in the forests near the old border with Cenred's territory, a place now even more lawless than before. The bad temper they had set off in hadn't lasted. At first they had argued in circles – Lancelot saying that he needed Merlin's magic, Merlin saying that his magic's place was defending Arthur – and then they had given up and accepted that, being as how both arguments had weight, and how Merlin couldn't be in two places at once, they'd both just have to deal with it. Besides, as Lancelot had irritably pointed out, it wasn't the first time Merlin had left Arthur and anyway, _wasn't _it true that he was more useful out here than back there, well _wasn't it_?

Merlin wasn't sulky by nature and rallied to the point. It was true.

"Besides," added Lancelot, watching the darkening trees carefully, "if Arthur knew you were magical, don't you think he wouldn't have sent you out here immediately?"

It was a thought Merlin had stopped dwelling on, how Arthur might harness his magic if he found out. _When_ he found out. He was usually too busy panicking about a less understanding reaction. "He wouldn't even have to find anyone else to polish his boots while I was gone," he added, with a slow grin. "I can leave them all doing it magically."

Lancelot laughed. "Imagine how furious he'll be when he finds out all those boring jobs he makes you do to punish you, you can do in the blink of an eye."

Yes, imagine how furious. But he wouldn't be furious about that, not at first, he'd be furious that Merlin had lied, to his face, for years and years. Would he be furious that Merlin had stood by as people died, as Camelot burned, and didn't tell Arthur the power he had, the power the Arthur had in him, at his disposal? Would he be furious about that? Would he ever be able to forgive that? Sometimes Merlin thought Arthur would be angrier with him for not telling him, than for telling him.

"I can't imagine telling him," he said, and Lancelot stared at him in surprise. "I can't imagine that. Not really, not anymore. The more that happens, the less I can imagine it. I say I can't wait, but I can't actually imagine how I would start." And that was preying on his mind, now that Uther's death wasn't something miles off and impossible to imagine.

Lancelot said, "you'll find a way when the time is right" which struck Merlin as the sort of optimistic grandiose statement Lancelot was given to regarding the future. Lancelot seemed to think that the future was where everything that should happen, did. Nothing was impossible to Lancelot, just delayed. Lancelot had an enviable faith in Right.

"Ye-es," agreed Merlin, doubtfully, because he wanted to believe that was true, but couldn't quite. Maybe it was he was too pessimistic rather than Lancelot being too optimistic – he was almost literally knocked off his horse by Lancelot. The suddenness with which he went from sitting on his horse to lying on his back in the heather made his bones scream. But Lancelot had a hand over his mouth, pointing urgently through the trees. He let go of Merlin and tied up the horses behind a screen of thickly growing trees, the evening light green and shady.

"There's someone over there," he whispered.

"This is much closer to Camelot than the reports said," Merlin hissed back. "They're probably just hunters." But even as he said it, he could feel the tingle of the Old Religion in the air.

Lancelot shook his head. "It's been days since the refugees saw them. They could have got this far."

They began to crawl through the bracken. Merlin glanced across at Lancelot, who was lying with his sword drawn, a deadly serious face on. It was strange, being here with someone who knew his power, the feeling of equality and trust was intoxicating. But he couldn't read Lancelot in the same way he read Arthur. He literally had no idea what Lancelot would do from one moment to the next.

"Can you see anything?" whispered Lancelot. "I know I saw something. I _know _it." He was fretful, uneasy. He knew he was dealing with something beyond the usual. Lancelot's caution was alarming Merlin almost as much as Arthur's gung-ho lack of it usually did.

"It's quiet, isn't it?" There was no noise at all, apart from them. It was high summer, early evening, yet not a thing moved in the wood. The silence was deafening, overwhelming, terrifying. "Maybe we should go back," he suggested.

"Not before we know their numbers and intentions. And if Morgana is there." Lancelot shifted, frowning through the trees, which were heavy with leaves. Between the leaves and wild ground vegetation, they could see nothing, only as the small breeze moved leaves and stalks. Then there was a movement, a sudden one, independent of the flora.

"_There_." Hissed Merlin, but even as he said it, he couldn't have identified what it was. It seemed shapeless, colourless, but it was movement. He didn't even know the size of the object. His skin was crawling now, the hairs rising on the back of his neck, and he pressed his head even further into the grasses and the ground. "I saw something."

"What was it?"

"I don't know."

"I don't either." Lancelot was tenser than ever. Merlin could hardly breathe. They both scanned the trees, but it was impossible. There was at once nothing to see, and too much to see.

"It might have been an animal."

"I didn't see an animal."

"I didn't see _anything_. I just saw...something."

And then, right in front of them, the air seemed to form into a shape, and even as Lancelot sat up with a sword, even as their eyes adjusted from seeing plain air to seeing a shape, the shape became Morgana and everything went black.

xxxxx

There was no confusion when Merlin woke up. None at all. He remembered everything vividly. He hadn't been knocked out, or drugged and though he remembered nothing after seeing Morgana, he hadn't been unconscious, there was no mists to clear when he opened his eyes. She had just frozen him, somehow, his body, his brain. He was numbly aware that time had passed, but that was only on an intellectual basis, on the basis that he was now somewhere else than from before. But in every other sense, it was as though a heartbeat had passed. By the time he became aware of his surroundings again, his heart was still pounding and adrenalin flowing from the shock of seeing her. It was as though he had blinked, and in that space of time everything had changed.

He was now sitting in a small dungeon. The stone walls were warm. One wall had a barred window, high up, through which warm air filled the cell with a gorgeous scent of wildflowers. Another wall had a barred door, the other side of which Morgana was leaning. Merlin and Lancelot were sitting on opposite walls, each had a delicate chain around their wrists connecting them to the wall. The chain was silvery, thin and hummed with enchantments. It was gently hot against Merlin's skin. It was unbreakable. The girl had style. The bars of the door glowed blue with the charms running hotly through them. Whenever Merlin was casting magic, the blood in his veins seemed to glow with warmth. They were warm now, uncomfortably, tapping into the magic bouncing off the walls, but it was ineffective. Merlin was powerless against this magic. It was uncontrollable. He could not hope to master this ancient knowledge from instinct alone.

"Hello," said Morgana.

She was, Merlin decided, quite literally a madwoman. She didn't even really look like Morgana anymore. She wasn't dressed in her old clothes, but in an outfit which was similar to Nimeuh's, and her eyes glowed with righteous insanity as Morgause and Nimeuh's had. Her voice was flat, confident and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Hello," said Merlin. Lancelot, opposite, said nothing. "Where are we?"

Morgana traced the bars with her fingers. "The Isle of the Blessed," she said, presently.

The Isle of the Blessed. Of course. He'd felt this electricity in the air before, and it was then.

"Kill us or let us go," added Lancelot, with all the pointless bravado that Merlin associated more often with Arthur in lower moments.

Morgana turned her head and fixed Lancelot with her cool, indifferent gaze. "I don't think," she said slowly, "that I am going to do either of those things." She looked back to Merlin. "Are you enjoying this visit as much as the last?" She leaned between the bars, looking down at him through eyelashes. "Brother?"

Merlin rested his head against the wall and met her gaze as equally and bluntly as he could manage. "I'm no brother of yours."

"Not by blood. But you are kin. Do you deny it?"

"Yes."

"We are both creatures of magic, aren't we, brother?" the false sweetness in her voice was aching. "We are more kin than Arthur and I are. And you have betrayed that."

"It's you who have betrayed your kin, Morgana." He didn't even care she knew. He didn't even really care _how _she knew, except it meant that Morgause must be around somewhere. He was too tired.

"No, I don't think so," Morgana said, sing-song. "My sisters Nimeuh and Morgause lie sleeping upstairs, Merlin. We're healing them, myself and the boy. They will recover, and be stronger than ever. We look after our own, Merlin." She looked at Lancelot. "So he knows?" she remarked, with genuine interest. "dear me, Arthur won't like that now will he?"

"Morgana – "

She tapped the bars. "Now, now, brother."

"What are you going to do with us?" demanded Lancelot, fiercely, still seeming to think this was in some way a normal hostage situation.

She looked at him blankly. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" repeated Lancelot.

"No. You may be useful to me at some point. Your deaths would hit Arthur hard, but I think it would be impulsive. You are handy bargaining tools, boys. Especially if by the time you're used, Arthur thinks you're long dead. Your resurrection will probably be more helpful to me than your deaths." She looked around, suddenly, as though hearing a voice no one else could. When she turned back, it was clear she was hurrying away. She was getting orders from someone else, Merlin thought. The boy, Mordred. "I have more important things to attend to," she said. "Don't waste your time trying to escape," she added, as an afterthought. "Not even your magic can break these bars, Merlin. And even if you did escape, I have guards here. Camelot's dead aren't the only ones we can marshal to our cause."

And she left.

xxxxx

Lancelot stopped pulling on the window bars and rested his head against them. "It's so beautiful," he said. The window looked over a wildflower meadow, tall flowers of every colour spread as far as a distant wild orchard. The trees were heavy with apples. He could hear birds, and the buzz of crickets and grasshoppers. "It's truly blessed." He pulled again.

Merlin was still sitting. His chain didn't stretch as far as Lancelot's. Clearly, he was trusted even less. "You'll never pull them," he said. "You couldn't even if they were normal steel. And they're not, they've been enchanted."

"Well, what else do you suggest?" asked Lancelot, who was exactly the sort of person, Merlin thought irritably, who _would _keep pulling on bars, just for want of anything else to do. So was Arthur. So, probably, were all the knights. There was something indefatigable about them, even in defeat.

Merlin couldn't stand with the short chain on his wrist, but found he could uncomfortably reach the door, just. It involved lying flat on the floor, his wrist weirdly behind the rest of him, his neck twisted round at a strange angle so he was looking outside the cell upside down. It was like a dog lying in front of the fire looking at his owner.

There wasn't much out there. The humming cell was clearly the only fully complete part of the castle. The rest of it was falling apart, and totally empty. Morgana's guards and sister must be somewhere, but from his awkward spot, all he could see was a building in various parts of disrepair. Through a long-since empty window, he could see the courtyard where he had once killed Nimeuh, or thought he had. There wasn't anything else, just the edge of an ancient statue of a knight down a derelict corridor.

He sighed. He could feel the vibration of the bars on the door from his position on the floor. It was hopeless. It was strong magic, on the barriers of this cage. The sort of magic that...something forged in a dragon's breath might break. He had tried to call the Dragon, but the words wouldn't form in his mouth. It was hopeless. Within the enchanted bars of the cell, his magic couldn't work, there was no glow in his blood that indicated he could cast any spell at all. He rested his head on the cold stone floor as Lancelot shook the window bars again, shut his eyes and tried to think. The sword in the stone – but he had enchanted it so that only he or Arthur could pull it clear, the two people it had been bond to. And there wasn't a way of getting any message to Arthur.

Magic in the cell wouldn't work. Sword in the stone. Statue of a knight. Like a dog.

He opened his eyes. Could it work?

He began moving again, more forcefully, as Lancelot realised he had thought of something and began asking "what? What? What?"

But Merlin didn't answer him. He was too busy trying to shift himself, writhing on the floor until he could sneak his arm through the bars of the door. His reach only allowed his fingers through, the enchantments burned his hand, but he bit back the pain. His fingers, on the other side of the flaming air between the bars, were cool. And, more importantly, yes, he could feel the blood in them, the blood as it felt when he was about to cast a successful spell.

"_What_?" hissed Lancelot.

Merlin flexed his fingers, focused on the arm of the statue of the knight, all the strength that would not come in the rest of his body made his fingertips tingle. He felt the rush of heat in the blood of his fingers, and forced the words out. They hurt, it all hurt, and even he could tell that the immsense strength that normally his magic fed off was absent.

At first he thought it hadn't worked. It hadn't felt quite the same, the only part of his body which felt as though it had cast the spell was the tiny amount beyond the cage. Could that be enough, even for a limited spell like the one he had just cast? Then he heard Lancelot say his name, just as another sound reached them.

Down the corridor, there was a crash and a creak as the statue of the knight turned around.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Red Rose Knight**

**Chapter Three**

Er, it's been ages since I've updated. Not sure if anyone cares anymore, but since I finally did something on it I thought I'd share it. There actually is more coming this time, too. Thank you all for your alerts and reviews, I really appreciate it.

The Council meeting had been desperately dull. Arthur hated Council meetings anyway, but this one was particularly dire. He was utterly stultified which, by coincidence, was also the status of his kingdom. No, his _father_'s kingdom, he reminded himself. Except of course Uther was catatonic in his chambers, and Gaius seemed unhopeful of any immediate change in that. And in the meantime, Camelot was catatonic too, and so was Arthur's life. Uther's illness was like the Fisher King's illness, infecting his land. Morgana had been Camelot's Dolorous Stroke.

"Sire?"

"What?" he looked across at a councillor, hoping his advisors hadn't noticed the film across his eyes.

"The situation in the west is graver than ever. There are border raids from Cenred's old lands, and raiders from across the seas. Lyonesse is appealing for help."

"All right."

"Sire, we're already protecting Mercia and Emione."

"Can our resources stretch to Lyonesse too?"

"We-ell. Yes, but –"

"We have to help those we can. We can help these people with non-magical attacks. Therefore we shall. Whether we have men in Lyonesse or not makes no difference, we have no workable defence to Morgana and her men. So we shall do what we can, rather than worrying about what we cannot."

They stared at him in concern. They wanted him to lie to them, to be like Uther and pretend that in some way with more men and more arms they could defeat anything. But Arthur wasn't interested in comforting lies. They had been so lucky so many times, the luck would run out. Who knew how the Cup of Life was destroyed? No one did. Perhaps a traitor in Morgana's camp. But certainly it wasn't Camelot's victory. Camelot's defeat would have been absolute.

Then the door was nearly knocked off its hinges.

It wasn't exactly a violent act. It didn't seem to have been done in anger – however angry you were, could you knock a three-foot thick oak door of its hinges? – it just seemed to be this particular person's way of entering a room.

The council goggled at the newcomer. He wasn't particularly tall, but there was a density about him that was even more impressive that Percival's feats of strength. He was a knight, a visor completely covering his face. He did not have an immediately recognisable coat of arms, but his armour was distinctive, a deep, vermillion, dark red.

The knight said nothing, did nothing, he wasn't threatening at all. Yet the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck rose, and he saw Leon step forward. He quickly rested a hand lightly on his arm. If there was one thing they did not need, it was to provoke violence with strangers. The knight certainly didn't seem to mean malice.

The knight did not speak until he had reached the throne. Even this close, Arthur couldn't see so much as his eyes through the visor. Arthur waited for a moment, and when the knight did not speak, he said: "welcome to Camelot, Sir...?" there was a long pause. The knight was immobile. Arthur began to feel the eyes of the council boring into him. "What is your name, knight?" he asked, a little more directly.

There was another long, this time thoughtful, pause. When the words came they were slow, spoken in a ponderous but careful voice that boomed around the hall, bouncing off the floor and the walls and effortlessly filling the space to the rafters. "People," said the knight, "have called me the Red Rose Knight."

Arthur, beginning to feel more awkward by the second, said "well, greetings," as unashamedly as he could manage. There was another long, somewhat agonising pause, before he prodded: "what is your business in Camelot...?" he couldn't bring himself to call a grown man the Red Rose Knight.

"Prince Arthur?" rumbled the Red Rose Knight, who hadn't so much as shifted his weight. He was completely still.

"Well, who else am I?" snapped Arthur, beginning to think the knight's reticence was bordering on rudeness. "What is your business with the Prince Regent of Camelot, Knight?"

There was total silence for almost a minute before the knight said, "I bear a message."

Arthur was really on the point of weeping from frustration and snapped: "speak it."

"From -" said the Red Rose Knight, a pause of seconds between each word as though assembling the sentence from a long distant memory, "from Merlin." Now the court rustled. The Prince sat up. "He says he and Lancelot are imprisoned. They are at the mercy of the Lady Morgana. He says you must go to the clearing where you shot the unicorn and fetch the sword. Then you must go to the Isle of the Blessed." This took a good two or more minutes to convey. A longer pause. "I can show you."

"Is that where they are?" Arthur was standing now. "They're on the Isle?"

"Yes."

"I must go there at once."

"He said the sword first."

"Hang the sword. I've got my own sword. Did you come from there? You must take me."

"The sword first," said the knight, stubbornly.

"Someone else can go and get it. They'll catch us up. How far is the Isle?"

"Only you can fetch the sword."

"The Prince Regent cannot leave Camelot," cut in Leon, as much to Arthur as to the Red Rose Knight. "I'll go instead."

The Red Rose Knight turned his head, with aching precision to Leon's direction and said, deadly slowly, "only Prince Arthur can fetch the sword and use it."

"Impossible," said a councillor.

"It's a trap," said Leon.

"I must go," said Arthur

Oooo

Lady Elaine was not fat or ugly or bossy, but she was a middle-aged woman whose husband, King Evrain, was somewhat vague and whose daughter, Lyonors, had turned out a little wild, and who consequently applied what brains she had to inveterate gossiping, as her own family were incapable of conspiring. Evrain was too good-natured and Lyonors could not keep a secret to save her life. Neither had any edge at all. Elaine had a lot of edge. However, after a life in court, her view on her fellow ladies were not at all complementary (nor, for that matter, were her views on Uther). Elaine was possibly the only Lady to be not only utterly un-scandalised but unsurprised by the revelation of Morgana's parentage. Morgana and Morgause's mother, Iseult, had been a cousin of Elaine's and Elaine knew full well that Iseult never had been anything but as a good as she should have been. And yet history remembered her as La Belle Iseult! Oh, indeed. _Indeed_.

"No one knows who first called Iseult that," Elaine confided in Gwen, who she liked enormously, one morning as Gwen laid out her clothes. "But I would lay money – I would lay Evrain's lands – on it being her. I would bet anything on her saying to her silly friends 'oh, such and such called me La Belle Iseult', and then everyone started it. I can't imagine anyone calling her that _off their own bat_. Certainly not anyone who knew her well. And Gorlois, her husband, certainly wasn't any better. She only married him for his kingdom. He was the most boring man in Albion, really." And then Elaine added, carelessly, "and she had magic of course. Wouldn't surprise me in the least if she didn't cast a few love spells in her time. That would explain her success with the men, more than the La Belle nonsense."

"She had _magic_?" Gwen stopped halfway through lacing Elaine into one of her dresses.

"Well, of course. Not very good magic, completely awful, actually. I remember once when we were children she almost killed us all trying to bewitch some household items...my dear, you have to remember that none of that mattered back then. All this unpleasantness is very recent. We didn't care at all in those days. Not even precious Uther Pendragon himself." She caught Gwen's expression in the mirror. "I am sorry about how it turned out with him," she admitted, and really meant it because she wouldn't wish ill on anyone, except possibly La Belle Iseult who was dead anyway, "but I am not surprised."

"Nothing's really turned out yet though," pointed out Gwen, standing back to admire her handiwork.

Lady Elaine smiled. "It will, darling. And then young Arthur will be on the throne and then...well, we shall see won't we?" She squeezed Gwen's arm. Elaine knew the gossip about the prince and the serving girl, although they hadn't been spotted together at all for weeks. The other ladies thought the prince had seen sense. But Elaine read Gwen like an open book, and the prince too for that matter, and felt things would inevitably work out presently. Which wasn't to say she wasn't aware that Gwen's pain was acute, or that she didn't have any sympathy with it. She envied it though. The exquisite pain of young love. Elaine sighed. Many happy memories.

The page was unexpected. Even more unexpected, was when Gwen opened the door to him and said: "what is the message for Lady Elaine?" the breathless answer was, "no message for Lady Elaine. Message for Guinevere."

Gwen felt Elaine come up behind her. "Yes?" said Gwen, edgily.

"Prince Arthur the Prince Regent requests your presence in the throne room..." the page struggled for a moment, "ma'am?" he tried.

"Time for an audience with the prince," said Elaine, squeezing Gwen's arm, affectionately. Gwen looked like she was about to be sick.

Oooo

Whatever Gwen expected when she walked into the Throne Room, it wasn't what she found. Arthur was sitting on the arm of the throne, informally, talking urgently to Sir Leon, who was looking doubtful. Percival was beside Arthur, nodding emphatically. Gwaine was looking crossly at Leon's back, and Elyan had his hands on his hips, back from the rest. They all looked up when she came in.

"Thank God!" said Gwaine, when he saw her. "Someone with some sense."

Arthur shot him a glare. "Thank you for coming, Gwen," he said, glancing at her but not meeting her eye. It was more than he had said to her since their return to Camelot.

"Sire." She said, coolly, flatly. She had spent weeks, _weeks_, in confusion and despair, not knowing if it was him, or her, or the situation, or how anything would ever be resolved again. She could tell Arthur had not summoned her to sort any of this out.

"Gwen, we've had some bad news," said Arthur, who if he noticed her tone, ignored it. He filled her in, quickly, in short sentences, and as Gwen got closer she saw his paleness, the darkness under his eyes and the pleading in his eyes for help. She saw his pain in hers, and despite herself began to feel her heart expanding again.

"What are you going to do?" asked Gwen, she spotted the Red Rose Knight in the corner. He was standing, immobile. It was impossible to tell if he was listening, or where he was looking, or if he were even still awake.

"I'm going to get the sword and go and get them," he said. "Like Merlin said."

"Sire, it's _a trap_," begged Leon.

"Look, Leon," said Gwaine, hotly. "If only Arthur can get the sword then there isn't a choice!"

"Maybe Arthur can get the sword, give it to us and we can go to the Isle of the Blessed?" suggested Percival, quietly.

"_No_. Only I can use it."

"Why do we need that cursed sword anyway?" demanded Gwaine.

"Gwaine, for the love of all Camelot!" yelled Arthur, frustrated beyond all belief. "I don't know. How the hell _should _I know? No one here knows! But if Merlin says –"

"Arthur," Gwen said, taking his hand in hers. She had seen Arthur scared before. But possibly never as scared as now. "Arthur, it's all right."

"I don't even know who this knight is," he said quietly. "But he said Merlin said to tell me to listen to the knight and that I was a clotpole. I think it really is from him. They could be dead by now."

"No." She placed a hand on his cheek. She knew, perhaps more than Arthur did, of the depth of his friendship with Merlin and the loyalty he felt to Lancelot, and couldn't bear to see the pain of second-guessing. She kept the dark thoughts from her mind, and focused on him. "Arthur, why did you call for me?"

"I want you to go to Ealdor and Hunith. It isn't safe here, and never will be. Especially if –"

"- Especially if we don't get on the road soon," said Gwaine.

"You're not going to die," said Gwen, softly, so only Arthur would hear. "And neither will they."

Leon said, "I don't even know who the next person in line to the throne is. Do you, sire? They'll have to be your regent. Your father's regent, I mean."

Arthur hesitated, and Gwen said, "it's Elaine's husband, Evrain. How can _you_ not know that?" she said it witheringly, but didn't let go of him.

"Really?" Leon doubted. "Maybe Geoffrey should check –"

"Unless you want Morgana." She snapped back.

Leon looked wounded . "Sire," he said, with the briefest of glares at Gwen, "Sire, please listen to me. You're leaving the kingdom at a dangerous point – "

"Exactly! How can any of us sleep easy with Morgana on the loose?"

"No," said Leon, patiently, clearly. "No, I don't mean from Morgana. The kingdom is more precarious than it ever has been in our lifetimes, Arthur. For the first time either of us can remember, it's danger from within its walls that is the greatest fear."

"You mean treason."

"I mean usurpation. There are a lot of nobles at court who haven't seen a chance for power in years. They probably wouldn't take you on directly, you've proven yourself in the last few weeks. But with you gone – "

"Evrain is loyal, I'd put my life on it," said Gwen, tensely.

"Evrain is an old man," overrode Leon. "He's a good man, but a weak one, and open to influences. God knows what could be unleashed."

"The only influence on Evrain is Elaine. And she won't let anyone talk him into treason. I listen to her all day, every day. She's as loyal to Arthur as anyone in the room. He's out hunting at the moment." She turned back to Arthur, and gripped him firmer. "I'm not going to Ealdor. Let me come with you."

"Never."

"I'm not leaving you like this, Arthur Pendragon."

He pulled her into a hug, and she could feel the tension in his body. "Besides, I love Merlin as much as you do," she added into his ear. "I want to see him home too." And Lancelot, of course, but she would never say so, not to him. It was a sign of the seriousness of the situation they faced that he didn't dispute what she said, make a joke of it or a disgusted outburst at the notion of feeling anything but profound irritation at Merlin's existence. They stood like that for a moment, perhaps each wondering how on earth it ended up being like this. One day, thought Gwen, we won't be constantly fighting forces a million times bigger than us, and there will be only us. But not today.

He pulled away and Gwen saw him collecting himself. "Someone send a message for Evrain. Sharpish." he said to no one in particular, and Gwen saw a page run to the door. "And someone else get the Lady Elaine and the Lady Lyonors in here. And Gaius." Another page scurried off. He took the map from Leon. "We don't need a map, I know my way. Gwaine's right, we have to go. Gwen, _please _–"

"No."

"All right, then stay here."

"I want to come," she said.

He took her hand and led her away. "Don't you know how worried I'd be about you? I have to worry about Camelot and about my knights and about Merlin – please don't make me worry about you."

"I won't go to Hunith."

"But you'll stay here."

"I'll stay here until you send for me," she promised, as he rested his forehead on hers. The door opened and she heard Elaine's voice, incessant as usual, but as calm, clear and unchangeable as summer river.

As Arthur walked over to Elaine, Leon said softly, hopelessly, "this could be the biggest mistake in Camelot's history."

No one argued.

Oooo

Arthur hadn't been back to the clearing for years, but seeing it again brought back the shame of bringing such havoc on his kingdom. His father's kingdom. He dismounted, and read the despair on his knights' faces. The sword, put simply, was in a stone. Elyon walked up to it, and bent over it with an expert's eye. "I think my father made this!" he said. But then he added, less cheerfully, "it's in there solidly, sire."

"Can you get it out?" asked Gwaine, sharply, joining him by the stone. Leon sat on his horse, looking around, alert to danger and probably thinking 'I told you so'.

Elyan looked at Gwaine a little disbelievingly, and proceeded to pull on the handle. Both stone and sword were immoveable. "No." He said flatly, "no, I can't, Gwaine, because the sword is _in the stone_."

"Not like that! Not just pulling it. I mean, you know, properly. With your tools and skills. You're a swordsmith, aren't you?"

"My tools and skills aren't usually used on rock, Gwaine. And yeah, I'm a swordsmith, but I don't usually hew them out of stone."

"This isn't usual, is it?"

"No, but it's still impossible."

"Percival," said Arthur, who had been scanning the surrounding trees with Leon, starting to feel the heat going up his neck. Leon had been right, all along. This was a terrible mistake in judgement, a sick joke. "Percival, do you think you could try?"

If any human could get that sword out, it was Percival.

He couldn't.

"We should leave," said Leon, urgently, quietly. "Sire, this is – "

"I know." It was, militarily, a disaster. They could be massacred at any point, and would barely be able to put up a fight.

"Only Prince Arthur can move the sword."

They all jumped, having nearly forgotten the Red Rose Knight, who had accompanied them, without saying a word the whole time.

"If Percival can't move the sword with strength, and Elyan can't with skill," Arthur almost shouted, "I cannot – they have more strength and skill than I. Who do you work for? Who have you delivered us to? Where is Merlin?"

The knight, his face totally obscured by the visor, was inscrutable. "Only Prince –"

"Fine! Look!" he was yelling now, his temper was lost. He marched across the forest floor to the sword, took the handle, and almost fell on his back as the sword slid free from the rock as easily as from a scabbard.

"Wow," said Gwaine, deadpan. Percival, Elyan and Leon stared in undisguised disbelief. And the Red Rose Knight just said, "we must go to the Isle," and turned around, to plod onwards.

Arthur looked from the stone, to the sword in his hand, to the impressed looks of his fellow knights. He carefully tried to ignore his thudding heart, the curious warmth of the sword and the glow of the blade. He arranged his face into what he hoped was an expression of nonchalance, to imply that successfully pulling a sword from a stone was something he would have always expected.

He strolled after the Red Rose Knight, with an air of indifference, while listening to the blood pounding in his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Red Rose Knight Chapter Four **

Thanks again for all your reviews and alerts – I really appreciate any and all advice and comments.

There isn't much Merlin in this chapter. He'll be along more in a bit, sorry about that, Team Merlin.

xxxx

Merlin reminded himself that he liked Lancelot. He liked Lancelot a lot. It was just a difficult concept to remind himself of, after being trapped in a cell with him for hours. Maybe even days. It didn't ever seem to get dark here, on the Isle. Outside, the sun shone, the trees were laden with apples, the water in the spring ran clear and bright, and the flowers filled the air with scent, but it was as though time wasn't passing. He felt no hunger or thirst, and only slept for something to do. The magic that hummed through the bars, preventing him from using his own talents, gave him a headache. And so did Lancelot's whining. Lancelot was not someone who took to imprisonment at all well. Having thoroughly explored every possible physical escape, he found it impossible to reconcile himself to awaiting rescue calmly and quietly.

"Arthur will come," said Merlin, lying on the floor, curled up, eyes shut, but feeling no weariness, apart from with Lancelot's grumbling.

"He'll follow a statue?"

"Yes." He wouldn't be able to resist.

"I'm not sure. He shouldn't leave Camelot, not as things are."

"I'm sure Leon will point that out."

"And you think he'll come anyway?"

"Yes. I'm sure of it."

"Yes, _I'd _come," agreed Lancelot, after a pause. Then, mournfully, "but he doesn't have us, to help him, against the witches."

"No." Agreed Merlin, because there was nothing else to say to that. He pressed his cheek into the cold stone floor.

Lancelot sat silently for a moment, before saying plaintively, "we could be here years! You know, we could be here _forever_. Do you feel you're getting older?"

"I really do."

"I don't. I don't think we are. We don't need to eat or drink or sleep, we could be in this living death _forever_." Lancelot's voice trailed off as he imagined the horror. "Arthur could get old, trying to find us, and never finding us."

"I expect Morgana would kill us eventually," said Merlin, grumpily, a little facetiously. Normally he'd have just thought it, but in the face of eternity with a stir crazy Lancelot, he couldn't resist it. "If Arthur dies, or gets too old to look. No one would care after that, not enough to come and get us."

Then they both went silent. "Arthur could be an old man," said Lancelot, who seemed incapable of getting past the idea. "And we'd be here the same as we are now, and he and Gwen would be growing old together –"

"Lancelot, please – be quiet." It was the fiercest thing he had ever said to Lancelot, but he couldn't stand it. All that could be done, was done. Merlin believed Arthur would follow the statue of the knight in red armour, just because that was the sort of thing Arthur _would _do. People would be advising against it, but Arthur wouldn't leave them here. The question that haunted Merlin was whether he _should_ have done it – it was the question that meant he couldn't relax, and brought terrible images before his eyes. What if he had just summoned Arthur to his death? Arthur was defenceless without Merlin's magic, yet Merlin was bringing him here, to the Isle, alone, and for what? The idea of Arthur growing old without them didn't haunt Merlin, the idea of Arthur not growing old at all did.

"It's no way for a warrior to die," said Lancelot, presently. "In a cell, at the hands of crazy women."

Merlin put his hands over his ears, as subtly as possible.

xxxxx

King Evrain left for his hunt a minor member of the court. Respected because of his birth – he came from a long line of famous men whose victories and glorious defeats on the battlefield were still the subject of poetry – he had an easy life. People called him 'King' automatically, even though he wasn't a king, nor had been for years. His kingdom, such as it was, had centred around a small town and castle called Brandigant to the west, which had been overrun by Caerleon during the war Caerleon-Camelot war decades before, and although Uther had kicked Caerleon out of the town, he had carelessly forgotten to ever give Evrain his sovereignty back. So Evrain had family wealth, but no castle, and no townspeople,. He loved his kingdom enough, but couldn't face the idea of leading them into a civil war when he was a second-rate king anyway. Uther, out of deference to their close familial relationship, had been more than happy to put him up in Camelot, and Evrain had been more than happy to stay there. He had been a popular, but entirely ineffective, ruler, and had no illusions about his flaws in the kingship department.

He returned from his hunt to find that, in his absence, he had become de facto King of Camelot. His one comfort was that everyone looked as utterly appalled at this prospect as he was. Everyone apart from Elaine, that is, who was grim-faced but determined. Evrain knew the look well. There was no arguing with that look.

"I don't suppose the King will recover?" he asked Gaius.

Gaius looked thoughtful.

"Today?" tried Evrain.

"No. Sire." Said Gaius.

No. Evrain looked around the Throne Room, glumly. It was entirely possible Arthur would be killed on this mission. Arthur was always gadding about nearly getting killed. And if he died now, with Uther mad, Uther wouldn't be able to elect an appropriate heir, and he, Evrain, was suddenly looking down the barrel of a crown. And _he_, after all, wasn't going to live long, and then what? A Queen Lyonors? Evrain looked at his daughter, who he loved dearly, but gracious gods _as queen_? She couldn't be trusted at most court events to behave herself, even at the back. What on earth would happen to her if she was in full view?

"Evrain," said Elaine. "This is going to sound like a strange thing to say."

Evrain didn't think much could be stranger than becoming King of Camelot in a couple of hours while you were out hunting.

"But it was very peculiar. The stranger we've been telling you about? The one who came for Arthur? He looked familiar. I only saw him briefly, just walking past me, but..."

"Mother, he was wearing a visor," pointed out Lyonors.

"He had very distinctive armour," said Elaine, coolly, to her daughter. "Evrain, I've been racking my brains and I think I saw him once at Brandigant, when I first met you."

"Oh? What was his name?"

"I'm not sure he gave one. And the strange thing was, I still can't place his face or who he was. Normally I can remember wives and children, but I can't think of anyone connected to him. Or his name."

"Then it'll have to stay a mystery, darling. Besides, if he were a knight under my father all those years ago, I can't imagine he's still young enough to be charging around the country collecting princes."

"He _did_ give a name," said Lyonors, sniffily. "A fake one, anyway. Sounded like an utter simpleton, to me. Gwen, you were there. What was it? Sir Red something – "

"The Rose –" began Gwen.

"The Rose Red Knight," said Evrain, urgently, the colour draining from his face. His wife and daughter stared at him with undisguised curiosity.

"That's the chap," said Elaine. She had no idea her generally calm husband was capable of such alarm. "Evrain? You look quite shocked. Who is he? _Was _it at Brandigant I saw him?"

"That isn't possible," Evrain was looking at a wall, to himself. "It isn't possible he was here."

"Why do you say that?" Gwen broke in, tensely, forgetting her position. "Why isn't it possible, sire?"

"I assure you, it is possible, Evrain," Elaine informed him. "He was as much here as you are now."

"And the prince went with him?"

"Yes; him and all his friends."

"Oh, gods preserve us." Evrain sat, heavily, in the nearest chair, not noticing it was his new throne. He put his head in his hands. "It can't be possible." 

xxxxx

"You think I've made a terrible mistake." Arthur had judged the situation carefully, waiting until they could be alone. Percival and Elyan were asleep, Gwaine was on guard – watching the Red Rose Knight inside the camp as much as for those outside of it. Arthur and Leon were lying by the fire, meant to be asleep. The Rose Red Knight was sitting away from the campfire, still as always, but possibly awake. It was impossible to tell, really. Arthur kept his voice low. It wasn't that he distrusted the rest. But they had unrealistic view of him. Leon, frustrating as it was, had a resolutely grounded understanding of Arthur's abilities.

"No," murmured Sir Leon, slightly sleepily. "Not necessarily."

"But possibly."

Silence.

"Leon. Honesty, please."

"I think," Leon rolled over, and seemed to accept the conversation wasn't going to be a brief precursor to sleep, but a serious examination of the events of the day. "I think the situation was possibly worthy of more thought than it was given. Sire."

"I see." He said it snippily, and loathed himself immediately. Why did he ask for honesty, if he hated hearing it so much? Leon was right. The situation hadn't been given any thought at all. He had barely heard the Knight's words before knowing he was going for them. He had never thought anything else. "Would you rather I don't come for _you_, next time?"

Leon gave that stroppiness a moment to blow over, and Arthur was relieved it was too dark for them to see each other's faces. "Sire, I realise the value of Lancelot as a warrior and Merlin as a friend to us."

"_I_ value their _lives._"

"Yes. But with due respect, Sire, there are other warriors and friends. But there is no other Camelot and no other Prince Arthur."

"There is no other Lancelot and Merlin, Leon."

There was a long pause, as they listened to the sound of Gwaine, Elyan and Percival breathing.

"To all intents and purposes, there are," Leon said, finally. "Sire, it isn't like the old days. You can't leave Camelot every time one of your citizens is in trouble..."

"Because my father's mad, my sister's trying to kill me and my court is a nest of vipers."

"Well..." Leon was taken aback. "Yes."

Then they started laughing. It started with Arthur snorting, then Leon giggled and before long they were both helpless with silent laughter, burying their faces into their packs. No, it wasn't funny. Of course it wasn't funny. It was hysteria. Finally, their giggles died away and Arthur stared up at the sky.

Why couldn't he hear the Red Rose Knight breathing?

He rolled over. There were Elyan's snores, and Percival's mutterings. Gwaine was shifting and blowing on his fingers. Leon's breathing was becoming regular, as he drifted off to sleep.

The Red Rose Knight definitely wasn't breathing.

He lay back and stared up at the sky again, digesting this information. "Leon," he whispered. "_Leon_."

"Mmhmm?"

"The Red Rose Knight isn't breathing."

Leon was silent for a moment, clearly straining his ears. Finally he said, in a toneless voice, "No. He isn't."

The natural end to that sentence, Arthur thought, would be 'what do you expect me to do about it, you who have dragged me out here with him against all advice?' He groaned. Of course the Knight was magical. He'd always known that much, really. "What am I doing?"

"Your best," said Leon, drowsily. "Sire."

Arthur let him drift off this time. They'd reach the Isle tomorrow, and Leon would need all the sleep he could get. What a responsibility this kingship is, he thought. That doing my best is now the foreign policy of the kingdom. And here they were, in a forest, with a knight who could knock doors off of hinges and didn't need to breathe, and for what? For looking for two men. It was the act of a friend. It wasn't the act of a king.

And he wasn't even that sorry about it.

His father had always said you couldn't have friends if you were a king. He hadn't believed him until now.

xxxxx

Gwen had been sitting at the window in the Lady Elaine's quarters for hours. Or rather Her Majesty the Queen Regent's quarters, Gwen ideally speculated. Elaine was definitely more royal than Evrain, despite Evrain being an actual king.

She jumped as the door opened. But it wasn't Elaine, it was Lyonors. Even in the half-dark, the room lit only the faint glow of Camelot's lamps coming in through the window, Gwen could see Lyonors' face was glum.

"Oh," said Lyonors, attempting to rally a smile. "Sorry. Where is she?"

"The Queen Regent? Still in with the King Regent at the council meeting."

"I see." Lyonors glanced around. "You have to wait for her?"

"There's something I'd like to talk with her about. You don't have to wait, though, I can have you told the moment she's free?"

"Thank you. I'd rather wait. Do you mind?"

"Of course, my Lady."

"Oh, gods," said Lyonors, bending over the empty fireplace. "Don't call me that. Can't we just be Lyonors and Gwen?" She was expertly building the fire.

"I can do that – " began Gwen.

"So can I," Lyonors said, and her face was briefly lit flame red as she set the fire ablaze.

"You and your parents are some of only people who say that at court. 'Gods'. Have you noticed?"

"I've noticed." Lyonors straightened up. "Uther doesn't practice mind control, Gwen. He can't change people's memories and speech patterns just by clicking his fingers. Have _you _noticed _that_?"

"I've noticed," Gwen echoed. Lyonors was speaking amiably, but the simplicity of her words was slightly alarming. Had Lyonors just admitted to practicing the Old Religion?

Lyonors smiled. "You want to ask my mother about the Red Rose Knight, and what my father knows about him?"

"Yes," said Gwen, distantly. She was watching the dusk over Camelot. "I'm worried about why King Evrain was worried. Do you know?"

"No idea, I'm afraid. I was little when we left Brandigant, his armour didn't mean anything to me. There were always so many people there. All these knights used to come and take part in some unwinnable quest in the sacred courtyard there. If you think Camelot is beautiful, Gwen, you ought to see Brandigant. It is truly the most blessed of places. Full of gardens and glades and fountains." She flopped onto a chair by the window seat where Gwen sat. "Of course, it mightn't be anything like that anymore, I don't know." They listened to the guards changing shifts far below. "Do you want to know why I want to see my mother?"

"Not unless you feel comfortable telling me," Gwen said, a little discomforted by this unsolicited confidence.

"I feel comfortable telling you. You seem a trustworthy type and have a vested interest in it, anyway. Do you know Sir Garin?"

Gwen knew Sir Garin, all right. Everyone knew Sir Garin. He was a famous womaniser, debtor and drunk who couldn't ride in from his castle to Camelot without spending time in the cells.

"I _think _so," she hedged.

"I'm sure you do. What you don't know, Gwen, is that we're secretly engaged."

Gwen couldn't hide her horror.

"Yes, I know. That's why it's secret. Only we know – and you, now."

"I'm sure if you...if you really love him, your mother will understand."

"She'll be completely furious. And I don't know if I really love him, if we're being honest for a moment. I like him – bit of a wild streak, you know? He isn't perfect. But he stands up for himself and doesn't take Uther's nonsense, unlike all the other pathetic wilting lilies that pass for knights here, who claim allegiance to their blasted Knight's Code of honour, while serving the least honourable king in known lands."

"That's treasonous," said Gwen, as lightly as she could.

"Can you be treasonous to a dead king?"

"But Uther isn't dead."

"Not yet."

Despite the fire, the air in the room seemed to freeze.

"Do you want to know what I know, Gwen?"

Gwen kept very still. She stared at Lyonors. Lyonors was looking at her through lidded eyes, completely relaxed. She could think of nothing to say. She was scared half to death.

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you," said Lyonors, into the silence. "You may be wise." She examined her fingernails. "But I don't think it would surprise Arthur that Garin isn't one of his most loyal of subjects."

"I'm one of his loyal subjects," said Gwen, faintly.

"Indeed you are. Except you're not. None of us are _his_ subjects at all, really, we're all Uther's subjects. Are you one of Uther's loyal subjects?"

"It's the same thing."

"Ah." Lyonors twisted her head, examining Gwen's face with an expression of sympathy. "You've rather hit the nail on the head there, Gwen. Uther, who killed your father and treated you so infamously. Uther, who killed a race of people and continues killing innocent citizens. People like Garin, and his men, and you, and I, are wondering, 'why should _we _prop up his regime? Isn't it time for a _different _thing?'"

"Your parents would be appalled to hear you say these things, Lyonors," urged Gwen, desperately.

"At first, yes. But my mother watched half her family be murdered for possessing a gift they had never asked for. My father had his kingdom stolen from under his nose. Can Arthur change any of that? Would he even want to? He's a Pendragon after all. People are wondering how much appetite for change he can really have. Why'd he want change, when he has this castle, and these lands and all these men on his side? It's all 'one day' with him, it's never 'now'."

She stood, and wandered over to the fire, allowing Gwen time to respond. Gwen said nothing.

Poking the fire absently, Lyonors said, "This is all theory."

"I don't much like it, as a theory." She didn't care it was forward. She thought it was pretty forward of Lyonors to be saying this anyway.

"I didn't think you would, that's why I told you. I'm not completely sure I like it much, to be honest. It was a pipe dream for a long time, but Garin thinks he can carry most of the garrison now, and certainly public opinion. The people liked Arthur, but they're growing weary of him not living up to his promise."

"That's only because Uther's alive," said Gwen. "I don't care for Uther, Lyonors, but Arthur's different to him."

"Yes," said Lyonors, slowly. "If that were true, Gwen, I promise you I wouldn't agree with Garin. But I'm not so sure that is true. The King isn't going to recover. Yet Arthur has changed nothing. Why has he changed nothing? Out of respect for his father. Why does he respect his father? Because he loves and agrees with him. Uther can die, Gwen, but the ghost of the father will live on in the son. Do you disagree?"

"I absolutely do."

"With which part of it? I'm not saying Arthur is a cruel man like Uther. He is as much a victim of Uther as the people are."

"He's different, Lyonors," Gwen urged, desperately. "Uther wouldn't have gone riding off for his friends."

"No," agreed Lyonors, "but on the other hand, is that a very kingly response? Where is he now? Here we are whispering in darkened rooms, and where's he? Chasing after a servant and an exile. Gwen, Arthur's a good man, but he isn't a king. He's not got the killer instinct, but he's got all his father's prejudices. He'll lead the kingdom to disaster."

"That isn't true. He loves this kingdom. He'll do anything for it."

"Anything?"

"Yes!"

Lyonors walked back to her, waiting until she was close enough to look into Gwen's eyes. "Including abdication?"

Gwen found no air in her lungs. This is how Camelot will fall apart, she thought wildly, not over immortal soldiers but over two young women arguing in a dark castle. "Abdication-?"

"Don't you think he could be happy? He could have lands, a nice castle of his own. He could farm, treat his few tenants well, he could have justice and peace in his tiny estate, where such idyll is manageable. He could have you. You could be happy, together, away from here. Don't you think he could be happy?"

He couldn't be happier. Could he?

"But – "

"Garin and Arthur could come to an agreement. With our help."

"By what right does Garin take the kingdom?"

"None at all. By what right did Uther take it, and Arthur inherit it? I will be his queen. And Garin is from one of the oldest families of the Old Religion. We'll re-establish Camelot as once it was, before dictatorship. We'll end the persecution. It'll be a new dynasty, a new partnership. He and I are both of the Old Religion. The people will respect us. And we will have made peace with Arthur. The Lady Morgana, wherever she is, won't have a fight with us. There will be no civil war. There will be no need for Camelot blood to be shed. Arthur can retire, happily, safely, knowing he acted for the best for his kingdom _and _himself. This way, no other way, it's for the best for everyone. Or so I think. Now I want to know what _you _think."

She had never come here to find Elaine, Gwen realised, dazedly. Lyonors had come here to find _her_.

What Lyonors was saying was wrong. Deeply wrong.

But it sounded right.

He had once offered to give up the kingdom for her. He had said he would again.

He would if she asked.

If...if...

Lyonors looked out the window over Gwen's shoulder, at the sleeping Lower Town. "The _fact_ is, Gwen, we have the keys to the kingdom." Their eyes met, reflecting the flickering lights far below. "The _question_ is – should we use them?"


End file.
